


Ars amatoria

by killingoksana



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anger, Angst, Art, Character Study, Desire, Drama, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Manipulation, Episode: s02e01 A Scandal in Belgravia, Exile, F/M, First Kiss, Heartbreak, Karachi, London, Lust, Missing Scene, Monte-Carlo, Nostalgia, Pain, Paris - Freeform, Post-Episode: s02e01 A Scandal in Belgravia, Post-Karachi, Pre-Episode: s02e02 The Hounds of Baskerville, Pre-Karachi, Pride, Secrets, Sentiment, Singing, Suicide Attempt, Undercover Missions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:42:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22353544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killingoksana/pseuds/killingoksana
Summary: If he had dared to ask and she were one to answer, he would have discovered a world of pain, lust, nostalgia, art and sentiment.
Relationships: Irene Adler/Sherlock Holmes
Comments: 14
Kudos: 129





	1. I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A mystery is what she is.

She stopped on a dime as she entered her flat. A strong scent of cigarettes and perfume hit her nostrils. She smirked as she made her way to the living room. She would recognise that scent anywhere.

And there he was, sitting on her piano bench, staring intently at the musical scores she had left there earlier in the morning; his fingers, placed elegantly over the keys, but playing nothing. His lips were holding a cigarette. She saw the ashtray over her grand piano full with stubs. He had been there for hours, she deduced. He had the sleeves of his shirt rolled up right above his elbows and a couple of rebellious locks were falling carelessly over his forehead. She thought he looked adorable. She would never admit it out loud, though. She eventually took a few steps into the room, the click of her heels hitting the marble floor breaking his absorption. He snapped his head towards her and took the cigarette between his fingers, blowing the smoke out really slowly.

“I wasn’t aware you knew how to play,” said The Woman, leaving her purse and her coat over the nearest armchair.

“I tried it, when I was a child,” he answered, standing up. He looked away from her and fixed his gaze on her piano. “Didn’t work for me.”

“Who would have thought… The great Sherlock Holmes can’t play the piano,” she anything but purred, clearly making fun of him, knowing perfectly that that was not what he meant.

She approached him, watching him intently. She couldn’t help but smirk when she saw his body clench. He wouldn’t look at her yet, and it made her wonder if he really was feeling intimidated by her. She took the music sheets and placed them inside the folder that laid over the piano, making sure to brush her exposed cleavage against his arm as she leaned in. Then, she turned around to keep it in the large shelf at the end of the room, amongst her drama novels and tragicomedies.

“I didn’t know you composed,” she heard him say.

Irene turned her head to face him and smiled. “There are too many things you don’t know about me.”

“Why won’t you show _me_?” Sherlock asked immediately, looking at her straight in the eye now.

He was pointing at the folder she had just put away. She fully turned to him and raised her eyebrows in surprise. She soon let her eyelids drop slightly, intensifying her defiant gaze.

“You once told me that I was a mystery that had to remain _unsolved_.”

He found himself approaching her, as if with her sultry voice she had lured him towards her. The scent of her perfume was intoxicating, too familiar for his liking. Under other circumstances, he would have complained, but now he found himself hiding his hands inside his pockets because they felt like aching, longing to touch her. She moved closer.

“Tell me, Mister Holmes…” she continued, her voice low and deep. She placed a gentle hand over his chest, her elegant fingers playing with one of the buttons. “ _Do you want to solve me_?”

***

Sherlock Holmes had learnt to not ask questions when it came to The Woman. And he had learnt to the hard way. Every time he wanted to know, she would make sure he came up against a dead end. She would make sure he could not find anything about her; not about her past, not about her posh, even aristocratic manners, not about her trained skills using any kind of weapon, or her uncanny ability to remain completely unfeeling under pressure.

He had learnt so many things about her throughout the years they had known each other, but none of them seemed to help him find an answer to those question marks that she had all around her every time he looked at her. He had learnt so many things about her, but none of them had he learnt from her.

He had become acquainted with the fact that Irene Adler was an unachievable woman. But he was also known for being a very stubborn man. He wanted more. And she knew that.


	2. I bis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From Paris to London, with love.

She could not tell for how long she had been staring at the ceiling. Not that she could see anything, due to the darkness her room was immersed in. In the silence of the night she could hear the bells from a nearby church ringing. She silently counted to the rhythm of each peal. It did not take her long. Four in the morning. She should feel exhausted, and even though she was, she could not close her eyes to try to fall sleep without feeling his harsh and bitter gaze piercing her.

A long sigh escaped from her mouth. Kate slept peacefully on her side, her arm resting over her bare chest. She searched for her lover’s hand. Her fingers lightly hovered at the diamond-incrusted ring that she had placed herself the morning before. She had bought it almost two years ago in an outburst but had kept it safely in the false bottom of one of the drawers of her vanity. She knew it would have been selfish to ask her to marry her. As much as she appreciated her, she did not reciprocate her love. She trusted her, though. She cared for her, deeply. And the sex was just too good to let that stupid, fleeting caprice ruin everything they had. That was why when she came home with the velvety box hidden in her obnoxiously expensive clutch bag, she did not find the power to ask her the unmentionable question.

But that morning, Irene Adler had nothing to lose. Because she had already lost everything. Before she knew it, she found herself kneeling in front of a very astonished Kate and letting the exhaustively rehearsed words roll out of her tongue. And then everything was too quick. In two hours, they had signed the papers that had been placed in front of them on her desk and the public notary had guaranteed their civil partnership; the events taking place so post-haste just because she was a dominatrix, therefore she knew what he liked.

“ _Until death do us part_ ”, she had told her.

She wished she had been valiant enough to tell her that it was all fake; that it was just a farce. That she just wanted to secure her fortune by declaring her the only heiress to her empire – because she felt guilty for not loving her back, for keeping her tied to her side for too many years even though that woman deserved better, and that was everything she could give her. She wished she could find the nerve to tell her that she was only doing it because she knew she was going to die.

She grabbed her lover’s hand stronger in an attempt to swallow a cry. The spark in Kate’s eyes that morning had almost made her heart swell with joy. But Irene Adler did not have a heart anymore. She had lost it to a merciless and brilliant man who had left it dying, adrift, in the coldness of his hands.

***

He lay on his bed, hugging the pillow with rather strength, burying his nose into it from time to time, watching the rain pouring outside his window every time he felt his eyes filling with tears. The alarm clock over his nightstand beeped and he winced at the loud noise. He looked at it briefly. << _06:00 pm_ >>. The night was starting to ascend outside those walls, pretending to devour everything in its path. He found himself wanting it to devour him too. It had been around sixty-eight hours since he knowingly broke her heart, and the agony was torturing him.

Eight months ago, the detective would not have pitied himself like he was doing at that very moment. But eight months ago, he had not crossed paths with an ambitious dominatrix yet and his façade was still mighty, impeccable even. And eight months ago, he was still oblivious of any kind of emotion. He did not know fear, he did not know shame, kindness, joy, trust. He did not know _love_. He did not know _grief_.

It was six o’clock in the evening of a dark and sad Tuesday, and Sherlock Holmes was lying on his bed, silently crying, inhaling the remains of her scent in his sheets. If he had looked at himself the way he did to the rest of the world, he would have deduced that what had gone through him was a devastating heartbreak.

***

She was not the kind of woman who would look back. And this time, it should not be any different. But as she made her way through the crowded streets, she allowed herself to think one more time of her soon-to-be widow. ‘ _Please, my dear, be strong_ ’, had she written in fast and messy handwriting, because saying ‘ _You’ll be just fine_ ’ was even too harsh for her. Five hours ago, she was leaving the note on her nightstand before kissing her lover’s forehead as she slept tranquilly. Now, she had just walked her way to the attic of an old building and was struggling to put the keys inside the lock.

Any other time, Irene would have felt safe amongst those familiar walls. However, this time, she was about to give up the chase. And she did as soon as she closed the door, collapsing against it and falling to her knees. The tears she had been trying to hold back for the past two days made their way down her face.

She never was one to resign, her pride had always been too strong. And even though she never had been one to resign herself to anything – much less to death itself –, she could not find the strength to fight for her life. Not now, that she had been so close to feel anything different from pain and ire. Not now, that she had almost rediscovered what love was.

She thought that the sooner she accepted her gruesome fate, the easier it would be for her to make peace with herself. But with the way she hated herself, it would require the will power that she definitely did not have anymore.

“ _You deserve this_ ,” Irene muttered to herself, her gaze completely lost in the rainy image of the city. “You deserve to die. _At last_.”

***

Three days had gone by when Sherlock finally decided to leave his incarceration, only because John had finally left the flat and, therefore, had left him alone. He went to the living room and collapsed onto his couch. He felt heavy. He was wearing his blue dressing gown; the very same one he had lent her a few days ago. His mind started to wander, taking him to that very same night, where they would be just there, in front of the fireplace. She was kneeling in front of him, making indecent and alluring proposals; he was taking her pulse. If only had she known that his pulse was just as elevated as hers, a deep desire growing inside him, wanting to give in to her infatuation. He had felt curious about what she had to offer; about whatever it was that made him admire her so much. But then they had been interrupted, and he later found himself feeling betrayed by her actions. She had been clever, but he knew better.

“ _Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side_.”

His own words echoed in his head, resonating with an arduous intensity that they hurt him, almost physically.

“ _Everything I said. It’s not real_.”

Now it was her voice reverberating through every corner of his mind. His hands twitched, the feeling of her touch in them too strong, too real.

“ _I was just playing the game_.”

The thought of her crying as he had positioned himself above her, above the entire humanity – just for the sake of proving her wrong – felt like a hundred daggers stabbing his very own heart. He snapped his eyes open, the memory of her feeling too unbearable, just to find his own tears running down his face.

“ _I know_.”

He gasped for air. He found any.

“ _And this is just losing_ ”.

If sentiment was a disadvantage, then why did he feel completely lost.

***

It had just been an impulse. As everything she seemed to do since she had use of reason. She surely hated her driven nature. Impetuous _._ Compulsive _._ She had grown up with those accusations screaming at her from the back of her mind. She had just learnt to live with that. It was not like they were a lie. Irene looked succinctly at her phone as it vibrated. The screen had lightened up given that she had received a new message. << _It’s been delivered_ >> was everything she read. Her eyes went back to the large window, the drops of rain falling down the glass mimicking the tears running down her ivory face.

She had stopped screaming a long time ago. Now she was just sitting in her divan in the small attic she had turned in the past into an art studio. Her breath was erratic, contrasting with the powerful sound of the rain outside. She wished she would run out of air.

She chose to send _that_ text, no matter how unconsciously it had been, the same way she had just chosen to send him a last gift. She betrayed him. And then the end of the world had started, right in front of her eyes, when he left his own flat without giving her an answer. She chose to play. She chose to keep playing, even after admitting that she was intrigued, that she was almost in love. And she lost. It hurt her to admit that, not as much as it hurt having allowed herself to feel love again.

Irene let her head fall to rest on the back of the divan and closed her eyes. She could not help but let her mind imagine. To imagine what would have happened if she had backed down with her dubious contracts. To imagine what would have happened if _he_ had accepted her offer. And she looked for the tiniest hint of regret inside her, but found herself wanting to relive every single moment with _him_. She felt it was all worth it, and that had her burning from inside.

She wished the end of the world would arrive soon.

***

Three strong knocks on the door woke him from his reverie. He frowned deeply, as it was too late to receive any clients and the probability of having visitors to stay was far too low. He had decided to ignore it when another three knocks hit his door, stronger this time.

“Go away!” he yelled. But much to his despair, whoever it was who had dared to interrupt his current state of grieving was now ringing the bell.

He stood up sharply and proceeded to walk downstairs. He felt his anger building up inside his chest. He finally grabbed the knob and swung the door open rather sharply, startling the young man who awaited in the pouring rain.

“Sherlock Holmes?” the boy asked shyly, clearly intimidated by the man who stood up in front of him, looking ragged and sad and angry. Not that the boy would have deduced the latter, nor the man would ever even admit it.

He cleared his throat. “Yes.”

The young man took a rather large envelope from his backpack and handed it to him. Sherlock stared at it, puzzled and unsure, before taking it in his hands. He watched the boy smile briefly at him –a smiled he swore it was full of compassion– before leaving him there, standing on his doorstep and with the rain splashing his bare feet.

When Sherlock dared to move again, he found himself running to his bedroom. He left the unaddressed envelope on his messy bed with less care than he knew he should have had. He opened his closet and took his old record player that had laid there, forgotten, for only God knew how long. He placed it over his small desk and plugged it in.

With trembling hands, he proceeded to open the envelope. He had been right about the contents. An old vinyl. The cover was worn-out, the image faded; the corners slightly damp because of the water that had soaked in through the messenger’s backpack. Vintage. Not a first edition, but close enough. He frowned as he observed it. He did not recognise the album. And if he were any other ordinary man, he would had admitted that he simply did not understand.

He did not think about it too thoroughly and took the vinyl record out of its cover. A small piece of paper fell on the floor as he did. He put the record on the player and carefully placed the needle over it. He heard the high notes of the violin starting to play as he sat down on his bed, picking the paper as he did. The elegant yet driven handwriting left him out of breath.

_Now this is how I want you to remember me_

His sight grew hazy. When the voice started to come out the record player he felt like fainting.

/ _Ne me quitte pas_ /

He closed his eyes and concentrated on breathing. He found it extremely difficult.

/ _Il faut oublier_

 _Tout peut s'oublier_ /

He thought he did not have any tears left to cry, and yet he was proved wrong.

/ _Qui s'enfuit déjà_

_Oublier le temps_

_Des malentendus_ /

He could hear his own heart beating. His hand clutched her piece of paper.

/ _Et le temps perdu_

_A savoir comment_

_Oublier ces heures_

_Qui tuaient parfois_

_A coups de pourquoi_

_Le cœur du bonheur_ /

For a brief moment, he felt again her hand holding his, softly, gently. His eyes snapped open at the powerful impression, only to find his reflection on the window. He wished he would not have recognised himself in that hideous image.

/ _Ne me quitte pas_ /

He felt the rage growing deep inside him.

/ _Ne me quitte pas_ /

He had beaten her.

/ _Ne me quitte pas_ /

And yet he felt guilty for that. She was making him feel guilty for that.

/ _Ne me quitte pas_ /

He stood and threw the record player from his desk, the sound of the machine breaking completely concealed by his roaring yells. If that was how she wanted him to remember her, as The Woman who had beaten him, he would revere her, as she had achieved her mission by far.

When he woke up, a few hours later, he found himself hugging her petite figure as she slept peacefully. They were lying in his bed. He felt relaxed. He felt safe. However, the alarms inside his brain warned him. He was not awake. He was in his Mind Palace. If it were a different day, he would wake up and recover the control of his senses. But it still was that dark and sad Tuesday and his heart was destroyed. The calmness of feeling her by his side, no matter if it was just his mind tricking him, was all he needed.

He caressed her hair gently. “I’m not abandoning you,” he whispered against her forehead. His arm wrapped around her tightly. “I swear. I’m not going to abandon you.”

***

He still did not know he was ready to forgive. Neither was she aware that he was going to travel halfway across the world just to save her from her fatal fate. But, at that very moment, if he had tried to reach her, and she had been one to allow him to do so, he would have found her lying face down on her divan in her attic in Paris, with dozens of paintings destroyed around the room, the pouring rain hiding the _tour Eiffel_ behind from the view, and a bottle of _fée verte_ spilt on the floor, just beneath her still hand.

If he had gone after her afterwards that tragic night, eventually he would have found her unconscious, after a clearly failed attempt to end with her life herself. What he would not have found out – because her pride was still intact and she would never admit it – was that her pain was unbearable, because she did not want to live in a world where he, of all people, despised her entirely.

And if she had successfully ended with her young and promising life, she would have never found out that he thought of her as a remarkable opponent, as the most brilliant mind he ever had the pleasure to encounter. She would not have known that she, of all people, had already made her way through his mind as a queen running an empire, since the very first moment she entered his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Featured song: _[Ne me quitte pas](https://open.spotify.com/track/6womH8osMod1WOk4RJWDaI?si=kUBKLLewQZekvsjtmdqLpA)_ by Jacques Brel (1958).


	3. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kneel and obey.

She let her hand linger over his chest for several endless seconds. The touch had sped up his breath and she, for sure, was enjoying it greatly. His eyes were half-closed. She could see his pupils dilating under the bright light of the chandelier that hanged above them. A coquettish smirk made its way across her dark red lips. She stole the cigarette from his fingers and placed it on her lips, breathing in eagerly. She blew the smoke over his mouth before putting it out carelessly on the floor. The groan that escaped from his throat was, at least, obscene. The effect she had on him, it was enchanting.

He studied her delicate face. Almost seven months had passed since Sherlock had texted her and she had had the fantastic courtesy of paying him a visit. In 221B. In London. He remembered the moment when, back then, he wondered as he watched her sleep by his side how it would be if she lived there. With him. In the 221B of Baker Street. In London. It had made his heart flutter back then. And it was making his heart throb right now. He tried to dismiss the thought from his mind, but he was too distracted with her lips to even think straight.

Irene arched an eyebrow as she watched him scrutinising her. As a general rule, she would have already received an answer to her seductive yet inquisitive question; a rather smart and sarcastic one, in particular. But he remained in silence for what it seemed like an eternity, and she could not help but lick her lips in anticipation, as his eyes were staring at them intently. She felt like she could hear the gears inside his head, thinking thoroughly, never ceasing. She wanted to enter his mind. Little did she know that she had already achieved that.

“You’ve been on a date,” he finally murmured, breaking the silence at last.

“Oh, _have I_?” she retorted. Sherlock hummed affirmatively in response, barely nodding his head. She led her hands to the back of his head, tangling her fingers with his curls. Sighing, he moved closer. “What makes you think that?”

She nuzzled his nose with hers. His warm breath against her mouth made her shiver. She did not bother to hide it. Taking advantage of their closeness, she allowed herself to look at him; to analyse him, just like he had done with her a few moments earlier. His eyes felt shut under her ominous touch and her smile grew wider. She did not notice anything different on his image. He seemed fine; healthy. The slight furrow on his brows, although, made her wonder if something was disturbing him. She wished to be the cause of the distress inside his brilliant mind. Little did she know, yet again, she already was.

“Your scent,” Sherlock finally whispered as he inhaled sharply through his nose, “is there but I can smell someone else’s too.”

Irene smiled and dared to close her eyes. She felt his light touch on her hair, just his fingers playing with her waves and hummed pleasantly against his lips.

“Your hair’s messy,” continued he, his voice daringly deep. “You’ve tried to polish it, but it’s still dishevelled.”

He placed his hand on her nape and tugged her hair faintly. Her mouth fell ajar at the touch. She opened her eyes just to see his fixed on her. The expression on his face spoke concentration; the one on hers, pure lust.

“Especially on the back. _She_ ’s been grabbing you strong.” He mimicked his own words. She could not help but moan under his touch. “You must have been very _good_.”

A pleased laugh rose from the back of her throat. “I _am_ very good. You should know that by now.”

“And your lips,” he added, purposely ignoring her inappropriate remark. “You’ve reapplied your lipstick recently, but the lack of make-up around your mouth tells me you’ve been using it. Very thoroughly, I must say.”

His thumb was now caressing her bottom lip. She took it in her mouth and bit it, strong. Her hand on his neck was firm as she pull hard on his hair, making him expose his neck to her. He gasped as she bit now the skin over his throat.

“And tell me, darling…” Irene whispered against the bruised skin, her hand never releasing him. “Are you jealous?”

“ _No_ …” he managed to moan. She softened her grip on his hair so he could see the proud smirk on her mouth.

“Good,” she snapped back. Her hands were now on his shoulders. She started to push him down. He did not put up resistance. “Because she was too shy to reciprocate, and I was left _very_ unsatisfied.”

She heard him drone as he fell on his knees before her. His lips caressed every inch of bare skin the deep neckline of her dress exposed. His hands did not waste any second on lifting the dress over her waist and took her already wet undergarments off, keeping them in his pocket.

Irene admired the image that lay beneath her and found it thrilling, exhilarating. She bit her bottom lip as he put her leg over his shoulder, his eyes never leaving hers.

“You may want to hold onto something,” he uttered, his mouth dangerously close to her bare flesh.

And she did. Her hand grabbed his hair firmly once again. He moaned first.

***

Sherlock Holmes had learnt too long ago that Irene Adler was an enigmatic woman. And he would scold himself, always back in the safety of 221B after spending a couple of frenetic and stolen days between the sweet jail of her arms, for giving in to that itching sensation of wanting more of her.

It did not matter how hard he tried to evade her grip. She had him at her mercy, and there was nothing he could do to escape. Not that he wanted to, really. But he was adamant. Because every time he had allowed her to do as she pleased, the next day he would have found himself alone, searching for her even though he knew she had disappeared. She would leave him, empty, wanting more from her, yearning madly for her.

The Woman was worse than any designer drug existing on the face of the earth. She was addictive. They both knew it. She kept taking advantage of her power, and he could only give in to their darkest pleasures. He was lost in her. And for the first time in his life, he could not care less.


	4. II bis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their affairs in Monte-Carlo.

Sherlock wrapped his coat tighter as he stepped out of the plane. The strong breeze made him squint his eyes.

“ _Remind me again why I have to go?_ ”

“ _Because, Sherlock!_ ” Mycroft had scolded. “ _This is a matter of national security. Behave and do as you’re told for once. Your country needs you. Don’t make me turn to the security forces. We both know how that would end._ ”

In a matter of seven hours, the consulting detective had left the country and was now no less than in Monaco, about to infiltrate a Neapolitan mafia under the direct command of the British Government – or under the command of his brother himself, which was essentially the same thing.

The premise of the British Government needing, once again, his services was simple. About a month ago, a rebellious division of the Camorra had made the foolish decision to become disbanded. Conflict of interests and thirst for power were extremely common in criminal organizations, and the solutions were always easy, even dull: a bullet perforating a dissident’s temple or a knife slitting a traitor’s throat. None of this would not have had any importance if it were not because of the disastrous consequences that breakaway had caused.

Right after the implosion took place, the dissident faction quickly started to take over dubious business all around the north of Italy, a couple of Swiss cantons, the French south-east, Andorra and, of course, Monaco. Gambling and narco-trafficking were their main sources of income. Their earnings remained secure in tax havens, but any connoisseur of the disturbing world outside the law knew that having money was simply not enough if a safety net had not been built under such trembling realms. And no one would ever want to find themselves in the way of flying bullets coming from every and any direction when everything started to fall down. But even though death was wayward and perverse, Marcus Thompson had all the ballot papers to fall in its cold and unloving arms.

And as Sherlock Holmes had discovered recently, the world was full of desperate men trying to show off. And most of the times, the catalyst that took them to their doom came in the form of a beautiful woman who knew too well how to play their strings. Mister Thompson was not one to be exempt from such misfortunes. A young man that had been given far more power he had proved to be able to handle inside the British Government, had decided, while on a business trip, it was a great idea to bet said government’s money in a couple of hand of cards against the mafia, just because a gorgeous woman had told him to do so, promising him to give him the best night of his life afterwards if he won. Clearly, he did not. And the result had been catastrophic: the man would have appeared in a dark alley with his eyeballs nowhere to be found, while the British had lost no less than eighteen million pounds in just one night. After that, the mysterious woman seemed to had vanished from the city and the leader of the dissidents had been left watching how the price for his head was increasing with each passing second.

Mycroft had described the case as tedious. Sherlock, on the other hand, thought it to be too easy.

_Arrive. Find the culprit. Get the money. Leave._

Clean. Simple.

***

And just like that, the detective entered the _Salle Garnier_ perfectly dressed up in a white tuxedo and black bowtie, a handgun kept in his inside pocket, his usual curly hair impeccably slicked back and an incipient beard that gave him a bohemian aura. His eyes inspected his surroundings in detail. He watched a duke laughing and blushing at whatever indecencies the escort that accompanied him was whispering in his ear. A young man existed the restroom, his eyes fixed on the floor, as if he believed himself to be guilty of any crime. A couple of minutes after, another man followed, trying to compose his suit, forgetting to put his shirt back into his trousers from behind. Two old and refined ladies walked past him, discussing fervently something about the main character of the opera was going to be played that night by a different actress, and feeling disappointed about it. He felt the urge to light up a cigarette to stunt his boredom.

He checked his pocket watch. A quarter to seven in the afternoon. His suspect would – or should – arrive any moment soon. But to avoid the tedium that was already taking hold of his being, he decided to wait on the box seat he had been strategically assigned to watch the opera. He was offered the programme and a flute of champagne, which he obliged to take in order to entertain his brain. He cursed his brother for forcing him to be there, about to pretend to watch an opera while keeping an eye on their alleged criminal, who was supposed to sit on one of the seats of the patio stalls.

He grunted as he discovered which opera he was about to witness. _Carmen_. His brother probably had told him, but he just could never bother to pay attention to him whenever he talked. It was a piece he was very acquainted with, since he started playing the violin at a young age. As the lights dimmed and the last spectators took their seats, he prepared himself to dispraise the abilities of both the singers and the orchestra to perform such exceptional masterpiece.

A young woman appeared in the box, shyly excused herself and gave him a note. He opened it, bewildered, doubting his suspect would reach out so early.

_Libre elle est née et libre elle mourra!_

He barely had time to recognise the smooth handwriting before the hall went completely dark. His eyes snapped towards the stage. Out of all images that could have crossed in front of him, the last one he would have expected to find before his eyes was hers.

She owned the stage. He would not have expected less from the great Irene Adler. And even so, he was holding his breath because the astonishment of having her sharing the same space and air as him was too powerful to bear. It was not exactly the fact that she was there, playing the role of Carmen nowhere else than in the _Opéra de Monte-Carlo_ , singing as the magnificent dramatic soprano he had just discovered she actually was. If he had been able to pay attention to his brain, he would have felt both admiration and adoration towards her. But he found his chest filling with rage and ire and it was blurring his senses. Only one question came to his mind: how dared she to expose herself in such reckless way.

Against his will, his mind took him back to Karachi. He could see her standing in front of him, proud, arrogant, her smile wicked and her eyes challenging. They had just finished discussing her new life. Actually, it had been him doing the discussing, knowingly avoiding looking at her for fear that she would know. But she knew. She was too clever to not put two and two together, to not deduce the reason why he had travelled to miles to Pakistan just to save her from her fatal doom. It was obvious she knew. However, he chose to believe she remained oblivious. And because she was too clever, she had been gentle. She did not ask any questions.

“ _Stay out of trouble_.”

“ _Can’t promise I will_.”

He could feel the soft touch of her lips against the corner of his mouth as she kissed him goodnight, leaving a burning sensation after them. The following morning, she had taken almost all his money and clothing, his car and had abandoned the safe house. He made the effort to convince himself that it was the best for both of them.

But now, Sherlock Holmes was clenching his hands into fists as he watched her perform.

_Get her. Secure her. Leave._

He heard his brother laughing in the depths of his Mind Palace.

“ _Of course, Sherlock. The universe is rarely so lazy_.”

He wanted to understand. He needed to understand. But her voice was too captivating, and there was no trace of willpower in his system that would allow him to think at all. His mind had chosen, instead, to give her his whole attention. One perfect decant leaving her privileged throat, and he was found compelled to remain there, powerless.

/ _L’amour est un oiseau rebelle_

_Que nul ne peut apprivoiser_

_Et c’est bien in vain qu’on l’appelle_

_S’il lui convient de refuser_ /

If he had not been extremely thrilled by her, he would have rolled his eyes at how fitting those verses were to her. Rebellious. Evasive. Free-spirited.

/ _Rien n’y fait, menace ou prière_

_L’un parle bien, l’autre se tait_

_Et c’est l’autre que je préfère_

_Il n’a rien dit mais il me plait_ /

If he had not been tremendously ecstatic by her, he would have convinced himself that he was the one who talked, the one who would even pray for her to behave. Somehow, deep down, he knew she preferred him still. And still he remained.

/ _L’amour_ _!_ _L’amour_ _!_ _L’amour_ _!_ _L’amour_ _!_ /

He swore she was singing only to him. He swore she was staring at him directly in the eye.

/ _L’amour est enfant de Bohême_

_Il n’a jamais jamais connu de loi_

_Si tu ne m’aimes pas, je t’aime_

_Si je t’aime, prends garde à toi!_ /

If he were not been dreadfully enraptured by her, he would be thinking straight, tying up loose ends and developing a plan to make sure she would not risk his own efforts to keep her alive.

/ _Si tu ne m’aimes pas, si tu ne m’aimes pas, je t’aime_

 _Mais si je t’aime, si je t’aime, prends garde à toi!_ /

His bowtie felt too tight. He gasped for air harshly. The kind of game she was challenging him to play, he was not sure to understand. Not sure at all. He did not move from his seat for the next two hours.

***

He stood before her door at the _Hôtel Hermitage_. He eyed the small golden plaque on it: Presidential Diamond Suite. He rolled his eyes. Of course she was spending around twenty thousand euros per night for just a bed and a shower. He knew she had had a fortune, but that was before she was declared dead to the rest of the world. It occurred to him that she had been misbehaving. Against his determined efforts to avoid her to.

With his fist about to knock on the door, Sherlock conceived various possible scenarios about how their encounter would go. He could only envision yelling and rage and reproach and a high probability of a whisky glass flying very close to his face. He was ready for anything. He never knew with The Woman. But as he was trying to find the perfect remark to answer to her in their hypothetical conversation inside his brain, his hand had already betrayed him and knocked on the wood firmly. He nearly panicked when she opened the door.

“Ah! Just in time.” Her face lit up as soon as her eyes landed on him. She offered him a sweet yet mischievous smile. She opened the door completely and turned on her heels. He found himself wanting her to stare at him for a little longer. But she had already gone back into her room. “ _Dinner’s ready_.”

It took him a couple of seconds more than he would have liked to recover his composure and react. He eventually stepped into the room after closing the door behind him as she threw herself over the chaise lounge and took a strawberry between her nude lips. A table full of diced fruit, desserts, flower arrangements and white wine had diligently been displayed for her in the middle of the living room.

“I’m not hungry,” he managed to mutter, his mouth completely dry. His fingers fidgeted nervously with the cuffs of his shirt. She smirked knowingly after swallowing the piece of fruit.

“Well, I am.”

The awkward silence that had fallen onto his lips –and probably into his brain, she guessed– only made her smile grow wider. He felt like she was reading his mind, when he was not even able to deduce a single thing that could possibly cross hers.

“Please, Mister Holmes. Take a seat.” She patted lightly on the couch, obviously asking him to sit next to her. He willingly sat down on the armchair in front of her instead. She feigned a childish pout as he did, but soon she was smirking again. “Excuse me for my inconsideration, but I haven’t had a bite to eat all day. I’ve been almost on edge. Because of the play, of course.”

“Of course…” answered he, trying to avoid her playful gaze and miserably failing.

She would not want him to think she had been nervous because she knew she was going to see him that night. Not at all.

Irene grabbed her glass of wine as she waved at the one she had prepared for him. He showed himself reluctant to accept it. She took a sip from her wine, her eyes never not looking at him. His mouth grew dry again, so he obliged to take the glass and gulped his wine anxiously. She observed him with excitement in her eyes. Her quiet laughter did not help him to loosen up.

“Please, do tell me,” she said, breaking the silence anew. She took a spoonful of what seemed to be chocolate mousse. The moan of delight she let out as she licked the golden spoon was clearly exaggerated. It made him shift promptly in his seat. “How did you like my performance? I think I did pretty good but that wouldn’t be very objective coming from myself–”

“I’m not here to discuss your artistic abilities on stage, Miss Adler.”

If she had been a different woman, she would have probably felt very offended at his sharp answer. Irene merely smiled, tilting her head slightly.

“Oh no, no, no… I know, darling. But since you’re a very well experimented musician and it’s been a while since we’ve seen each other, the least we can do is to strike up an interesting conversation…”

She raised from her spot with elegance. Only then Sherlock realised, very much to his surprise and latent relief, she was actually dressed – as dressed as someone can be wearing a matching set of expensive lingerie, the ecru shade and delicate silky texture deliberately flattering her almost imperceptible tanned skin, which was hidden under a sheer negligee in a pale Veronese green that he swore it matched perfectly to the colour of her eyes. Or his. He was not sure anymore.

“How long has it been? Seven months, I think?”

“You’ve been counting?”

His answer was immediate, defensive. She laughed humorously, most probably at him.

“No, but I’m sure _you_ have.”

He wanted to retort, but before he were capable of thinking of a comeback convincing enough –if he were one to think in her presence at all– to dismantle her provocative insinuations, she had disappeared into her bedroom.

“I know what you’re thinking…” he heard her say from the distance, along with the clattering noise of a drawer being opened and closed. “That I’m being very foolish, disobeying you and ignoring your instructions to stay out of trouble and all that... And believe me, I’ve been such a _very good girl_. Extremely good. I’ve been behaving myself.”

She came back in sight, with a mobile phone in her hand. She showed it to him, a deliberate smile on her lips. He stood on his feet abruptly, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. It he had not been so confident about the fact that her camera phone was safely kept in his very own flat back in London, as had been for a few months now, he could have believed she had gone there and stolen it.

She took a few steps towards him, playing teasingly with the phone.

“But you see, chaos is something that you and I don’t seem to be able to elude. It keeps haunting me. And I cannot lie to you.” She made a dramatic pause. “I love it.”

He circled the table and moved closer to her. His expression was dead serious, concerned and intimidating. She stood straighter.

“Then, for the sake of your safety,” the detective growled, his voice deep and harsh and angry. It almost made her shiver. “Tell me why I have the feeling that you’re more involved in this debacle than you’re pretending to be.”

His heart skipped a beat when she placed an elegant hand over his clothed chest. He could only pray it had not shown. It did.

“I’m not the woman you’re looking for, Mister Holmes… _Or am I_?”

***

Irene Adler was always light years ahead. Of everything. It should not have surprised him that she knew that much about him being in Monte-Carlo. And yet, it did. He watched her closely as she sat at the dressing table. He had spent over thirty minutes reading the police reports she had gathered from both the Monégasque and British security forces and observing the pictures of a woman that he could not really fit in the whole story. The information she had about the case was extensive and detailed. However, there was something that did not make very much sense to the detective.

She could feel his agitation radiating from where he was sitting, behind her, at the side of her bed, his hands fidgeting anxiously with her camera phone. She eyed him through the mirror and smirked.

“Shoot,” she nothing but demanded.

He stood up and inhaled sharply. “What are you doing here?”

“Getting ready for the night,” she answered sardonically, deliberately waving the make-up brush in her hand.

“What are you doing in Monte-Carlo.” His tone was severe, as he was not willing to bear any kind of sarcasm – especially none coming from her.

“Irene Adler may be dead, but Geneviève Lemaître is very much alive.” She paused to apply her eyeshadow. “She’s a singer, you see, so she’s here to fulfil her dream to perform opera.”

“And yet _she_ has never performed until today, when _I_ happen to have dropped by the city to solve this, let’s call it, misadventure.”

“That was just a coincidence.”

“Coincidences don’t exist.”

He walked to stand behind her, his eyes piercing her through the reflexion on the mirror. His hands remained behind his back and he was slightly bent over her, creating an intimidating sensation. She pursed her lips and concentrated on her eyeshadow.

“Where’s the money, Miss Adler?”

“I don’t know.”

Her response came instantly. He considered the two options that lay before him: either she was showing off her extraordinary lying skills or was actually telling the truth. Even though he was not entirely sure, he chose to believe her. She was now looking at him directly in the eye and he noticed what it seemed to be concern on them. He sighed deeply and placed his hands under his chin.

“I told you I didn’t have anything to do with your little politician’s incompetence.”

Now it was her who was being extremely earnest.

“Then, please, do tell me how come you have all this information in your possession.” The nervousness that had been building up in his system rose to the surface. “Next time you happen to have gotten yourself into trouble I may not want to be there to save that careless head of yours.”

She stopped her task on her eyes and placed the brush on the table. For a moment, Sherlock saw anger in her gaze. But soon she was back to being her composed self.

“I didn’t ask you to save me. I never even wanted to be saved,” she snapped back, her voice calm and steady, yet he could feel a hit of disdain in her tone. “And next time I decide to get myself into trouble, because we both know there’ll be a next time, I may not even want your help.” She took her brush again and continued her labour. “Now don’t take _my_ help if you don’t want it. I still owe you _nothing_.”

He frowned slightly. Her apparent indifference towards his past actions definitely threw him off. The fact that she might have actually wanted to die in hands of a terrorist cell made his chest ache. She was right, though. She had never asked him to be her knight-errant, and he definitely had never thought of calling in the favour. Because it never was a favour. He had saved her because he chose to do so. He had assumed she did understand that.

Irene remained silent for several minutes, even absent-minded. She arranged the items over her dressing table. He watched her movements expectantly, since he did not know what was going through her mind at that moment. She pretended to give some finishing touches to her already flawless make-up, applying some kind of fluid over her red lips, making them shine fabulously. He made as though he had not noticed them, intentionally looking away from her.

Before we could even think of what he could possibly say to her attack, she was speaking again. “The woman in the pictures. Mia Ambrosi. She’s the one that made Thompson lose the money. I happened to bump into her the morning after the killing.”

She stood up and walked to her walk-in closet. Her body was very tense despite the quietness of her voice.

“Very sweet, and extremely talkative,” she continued. “A couple of mimosas at brunch and I had her exactly where I wanted her.”

He huffed with derision. She came back with a red dress on her arms, the colour matching perfectly to the shade on her lips. He simply watched her as she placed it over the bed and got rid of her negligee, discarding it carelessly on the floor. She walked closer to him and turned around, moving her hair aside from her back. It took him a moment to understand, but soon he moved his hands, slowly, as if frightened, and delicately unclasped her bralette. He allowed himself to caress her shoulders and arms as she took it off completely. Without turning back to face him, she put on the gown. She set her elegant curls back in place and walked away. Only when she was at her dressing table grabbing her bottle of perfume –the very same one she wore when they first met, Sherlock noticed–, she talked once again.

“Although she had a little bit of trouble relating the events, you know, since she had insisted on keeping her head buried between my legs most of the time.”

He felt his hands twitching at her words.

***

He offered her his arm as they entered the _Casino de Monte-Carlo_ , which she pleasantly welcomed.

“And what is your plan exactly?” His voice was low, his eyes scanning the place exhaustively, possibly searching for potential attackers. “Assaulting the mafia and taking the government’s money from their hands?”

Irene laughed lowly, feeling more relaxed than she had been before in her suite. She felt him dragging her slightly closer to him when several men and a few women turned their heads and stared at her, the men devouring her lasciviously with their eyes, whereas the women looked at her intensely; some with jealousy, others, with hidden desire.

“No, dear. We’re not really going to steal the money from the mafia,” she whispered as she turned her head to him, giving him her full attention, to which he secretly felt thankful. “We’re going to win it back.”

“We?”

She plainly smiled as he looked at her briefly with a lifted brow, just to fix his gaze back to the front desk. She stopped walking and made him fully turn towards her, her gloved arm still half perched around his.

“Well, obviously you’re going to be doing the thinking. Tonight I’ll be just happy to take part as your trophy wife.”

“Why?”

He watched her gaze wonder briefly around them, somewhat suspicious.

“Because a girl doesn’t get the chance to play the Bond girl very often. Or maybe I should play Bond himself, haven’t made up my mind yet.”

He airily chuckled at her comment as they resumed their walk towards the desk. He could not help but reminisce about the implied significance in her words, and the memory of the ‘Bond case’ that had taken both of them to a bittersweet fate. The bitterness of Karachi was still carrying its aftermath; now they could only enjoy the sweetness of their reencounter.

After a short yet well-mannered exchange of words, spoken in perfect French, the woman at the reception showed them the way to the _salon privé_ , where the obviously illegal game was going to take place. Irene secretly smiled at the fact that he had presented himself as Hoagland Carmichael. It occurred to her that sentiment was currently taking the best out of him. They made their way to the lift in silence. Once inside, she dared to flirt yet again.

“So, will you let me be your Vesper Lynd tonight?”

Her hand gracefully caressed his cheek as she stepped closer to him, placing one leg intentionally between his. The gun on her thigh brushed his inner one. She smirked when he took a hasty breath and leaned in, shortening the distance between then.

“I thought you were going by Geneviève these days,” Sherlock purred. A finger caressed his cheekbone, then her hand landed on his bowtie, pretending to fix it.

“Please, darling, call me Eve.” She stood upright and gently graced her nose against his, even leisurely. “And do relax, we don’t want to raise any suspicions about our recent and sacred matrimony.” Her lips were now dangerously close to his. He did not want to be the first to withdraw. She knew that. “Let it flow. After all, we’re supposed to have already consecrated out deep love to each other in our passionate wedding night.”

Just as the door opened, Irene exited the lift, feeling pleased yet very eager for more. She left him there, frustration growing all inside him, watching her as she advanced down the hallway. For a moment, stepping outside too, he let himself get lost in the way her hips swayed as she walked. He admired her from his position. The dim yellow lights made the skin of her bare back shimmer gracefully.

When she noticed he was not following her, she turned around, her eyebrows raised in feigned surprise. She reached out her hand towards him and her grin widened. He continued to observe as he approached her. The deep neckline of her dress, that went all the way down just above her navel, exposed her chest, making very visible how it raised and fell with every breath she took; and the slit over her left leg only added a sensual final touch. A thin, long gold chain hanged around her neck, holding a small pendant that lay just between her breasts. The luxurious atmosphere of the building suit her boundlessly. That architecture from _la Belle Époque_ looked perfectly around her. It was like she belonged there. It simply made sense.

He returned her smile as he gently took her hand in his and intertwined their fingers, softly caressing the satiny fabric that covered them.

“ _Allez_ _, mon amour_ ,” she purred as he got closer. “ _Tu ne voudras pas être en retard_.”

Following a plan he had not designed himself was difficult to him, especially without knowing the details from it. But, apparently, he did not have any choice now, so he guessed he would just have to make do. If she wanted to play the young newlyweds that were madly in love with each other, he was happy to take his part very seriously. In the end, he was curious about how far she was willing to get for the sake of the case. Even though, in fact, he was co-operating because he would never want to disappoint her.

As they made their way through the _salon privé_ , he felt a strong thrill running down his spine. He did not trust her. He simply could not trust her. But to be fair with himself, his trust had been abandoned in London the moment he stepped out of his flat. And yet, as she walked by his side, superb and arrogant, he did not contain the satisfied smile that had formed on his lips.

***

“ _Messieurs, il est temps de faire une pause_ ,” the croupier announced as he dropped the deck of cards over the table and moved off, exiting the room.

As the clock struck four in the morning, Sherlock stood up from his chair and fixed his tuxedo. To his left, Irene appeared and sat casually on the edge of the poker table. She was holding a Vesper Martini, which she offered to him. He rolled his eyes at her choice of cocktail, but eventually took it.

“Planning on getting me drunk tonight?” he whispered, just so only her could hear him. She gave him a charming smile in return.

The night had been stretched on for too long. The seven participants that started the soiree playing were professionals, to which Sherlock was at first very thankful for, since it made everything more challenging, but now it was just getting wearying. Albeit they were just very close to achieve their goal. In front of him sat Leone Durante, his not-so-alleged perpetrator and the reason the game was taking so long. He was clever, the detective had to admit. Over the table, the poker chips added up to twenty-one million euros. Achieving that insane amount of money was fairly easy, considering that the participants were either bussiness magnate with the intention of showing off their wealth or spoilt, posh youngsters who were very eager to consume their future inheritances. It was more than the British had asked to recover, but now Sherlock just had to win. And the Neapolitan did not seem to make it easy at all.

But everything was following its course, exactly as Irene had planned. Her ‘informer’ was reliable and was proven to be very useful. And just as expected, the brand-new mafia would be back to _Le Casino_ to increase their funds to finance their expansion and the crimes that it entailed, meanwhile ruin any naïve, compulsive gambler that would lend themselves to it. So there they had appeared, that disgustingly arrogant, smug Durante, accompanied by an elegant Mia Ambrosi, who had spent the entire night timidly eyeing Irene. Now, the lady had taken the mobster outside the salon. The plan had just been launched.

Sherlock signalled Irene with a slight gesture of his head to follow them. Ambrosi was supposed to distract Durante just for enough time to allow the detective to hack into the Casino system, set his alias as the winner of the night and transfer the money to an anonymous bank account in Switzerland, from where the British would recover it. Obviously, the last part was Irene and Sherlock’s plan, to which the Italian lady was completely unaware of. She thought that Irene would steal the money from her companion and flee with her to any exotic country that they would choose once the arrive at the airport. Irene thought her promise was romantic. Sherlock, on the other hand, believed it to be cruel.

The Woman made her way towards an adjacent room, where Mia, as instructed by her, was supposed to take their victim, kiss him and drug him with the somniferous lipstick Irene had provided her with. But when she arrived at the door, she did not find what she expected to see. They found the couple arguing rather heatedly. She hid next to the opened door and listened carefully. Her Italian was somewhat oxidized, but she still could understand most of the conversation. The mafioso wanted to get more money, but Mia was trying to convince to stop, since enough money had already been bet. But the man was enraged. He was obsessed with getting more money that night. The next thing Irene could hear took her breath away.

“ _Vuoi che il ragno ci spellasse e ci trasformasse in scarpe?!_ ” he yelled. “ _Perché questo è ciò che ci farà se non le diamo più denaro!_ ”

The words resonated in her head. _The spider will skin us and turn us into shoes_. She had heard that threat before, a lot time ago, but now it had resurfaced from her subconsciousness, since its peculiarity was something difficult to forget. Tying up the ends was not difficult.

She felt her legs go numb. She could not pay attention to the conversation anymore. She was not able to react, to run to Sherlock and tell him that it was none other than James Moriarty who was behind all that debacle. It was the heart-breaking scream that had left Mia’s mouth and the sound of Durante’s grave steps that woke her up from her absorption. Due to the lack of a better option, she hid behind a tall jade plant, hoping to go unseen. She saw the mafioso walking before her, but he looked too infuriated to pay attention to his surroundings. Once she lost sight of him, she left her lame hideout and entered the contiguous room.

She brought her hands to her head as she discovered the reason that had made Mia scream like she had done a few moments ago. Irene found her lifeless body lying on the floor, with her throat slit and covered in her own blood. She dared to move closer to kneel by her side, cursing under her breath. She was going to betray her, leaving her, possibly heartbroken, and taking the money with which she had promised to give her the best life. But that was nothing compared to what that despicable man had just done to her. She was innocent, just a victim in that awful underworld.

“I’m sorry, Mia…” she whispered as she closed the woman’s eyes, almost with affection. “ _Mi dispiace tanto_ …”

Now it was the sound of a gunshot that alerted her. Taking her handgun and abandoning her prayers, she ran back to the salon, only to find that Durante had shot the croupier dead. Sherlock stood in front of him, his hands behind her head, surprisingly composed in spite of the fact that he was being pointed at with a weapon.

Irene felt the rage building up in her insides. She felt responsible for whatever it was taking placed in that moment, Mia being murdered and Sherlock looking like he was about to be too. Aiming her gun towards Durante, she took several steps into the room.

“ _Preparati a morire, bastardo_ _!_ ” she yelled, letting all her wrath out. “ _Prendi questo come mia vendetta_.”

Just as Durante turned around to face her, she pulled the trigger. The bullet precisely landed between his eyes. They watched the dead body fall to its knees before perishing onto the patterned carpet. She finally lowered the gun and took a couple steps towards the detective.

“Let’s go!” she hurried a very bewildered Sherlock. “They’ll be here any moment soon.”

He was staring at her with incredulous eyes. Irene extended her hand towards him impatiently, and he simply obeyed her order.

“Where’s your girlfriend?” he asked as they exited the room, his eyes still fixed on her, her gaze dark and concerned. She was breathing heavily, still clutching the handgun tightly, visibly repressing her ire.

“He killed her,” answered she, her gaze fixed ahead and her tone full of bitterness.

Sherlock did not ask her why she had done it. The reason was pretty obvious. He merely followed her in silence outside the Casino and across the darkness of the Monegasque streets. There was no time to lose. The police sirens were going off in the distance.

Irene dragged Sherlock through the back entrance to the hotel. Avoiding a couple of employees that were either cleaning or bringing room service, the couple advanced through several hallways towards the service staircase. The sound of footsteps coming from around the corner made them both stop on a dime. Due to the imminent encounter that was bound to happen, Irene pushed the detective towards her as she leaned against the wall. She grabbed him sharply by his nape and pulled his head to the curve of her neck.

“Play along,” she muttered in his ear, just as a security guard turned the corner. Reacting fast enough, Sherlock placed a shaky hand on her leg and wrapped it around his hip. She feigned a breathy laugh. It sounded more like a moan.

“ _Dis donc, tu ne peux pas être ici!_ ” the guard yelled at them.

The couple turned their heads at the man, the expression in their faces showing well feigned surprise.

“ _Excusez-nous, nous devons nous être perdus_ ,” she replied, gently pushing Sherlock away from her, whose hand still lingered on her thigh.

She laughed innocently and took her ‘lover’s’ hand and started running to the staircase under the baffled gaze of the guard, who she hoped was too tired to go after them, or to even remember their little mishap the following day.

After several minutes that seemed to be never ending, they made their way to her suite. She rushed him in and shut the door, feeling just as stifled as he was.

“Well, that was close…” she murmured, retrieving her gun from her thigh and leaving it over a side table. Then she took her off and threw them onto a near couch. “Can’t believe you won the money.”

He let himself fall onto her chaise lounge with a long sigh. “And yet I did.”

“Let’s celebrate.”

Before he knew it, she was straddling him. The similarity to their first encounter made him shiver unconsciously. Her unique smirk had appeared again on her lips. He really wanted to understand her behaviour. She had just killed a man in cold blood.

“Three people had died tonight. I don’t see why we should celebrate.”

“Because we made it out alive and loaded. Those deaths were just collateral damage.” She placed her forearms over his shoulders and leaned in closer. He gripped the couch in response. “Let’s have dinner.”

“What happened when they left?”

Irene huffed loudly and gave him a sad look.

“Gosh, are you _always_ so annoying?”

And suddenly her lips were pressed to his and his hands had landed on her hips and Irene hummed contently when he not only stopped her but deepened the kiss. Her lips felt like anything he could have ever imagined. It had caught him off guard. However, for a second, he allowed himself to close his eyes and get lost in the moment, in the feeling of her caressing his hair and the warmth of her skin under his touch.

But when his tongue was fighting its way inside her mouth, she pulled back and left him there, gasping. He opened his eyes only to find a blurry image of her. She stood up with difficulty, stumbling on the coffee table behind her and almost falling. He tried to help her but found himself almost immobile. Irene grabbed the chain around her neck and clumsily unscrewed the pendant. She finally took it to her lips and drank from it. Then, wiping the lipstick from her mouth with the back of her hand, she sat herself beside him and rested her head on his shoulder.

A few minutes passed when she recovered her sight. She looked at Sherlock, who was trying to keep his eyes open. He turned his head to her, and his sleepy face made her laugh lowly.

“Uh, that one hit hard, didn’t it?”

“What–” he mumbled. Irene pressed a finger over his lips.

“Hush now, darling. You’re going to be fine. This is just for your safety.”

He was starting to lose control of his body, so she helped him lay down over the chaise lounge. She caressed his cheek gently as he fought against his current state with no success.

“I’m starting to enjoy this little ritual of us. I can get used to it. Can’t you?”

She pressed a soft kiss on his forehead. He was starting to surrender to her induced sleep. He put up no resistance.

“Until next time, Mister Holmes. You still owe me dinner.”

***

It was almost noon. Sherlock woke up startled calling for The Woman, only to find himself laying on her bed. The bright Mediterranean light filled the empty suite. His head was still dizzy. He brought a hand to his forehead, trying to regain awareness. He momentarily thanked that she had left one of the large windows opened and had unbuttoned completely his shirt. The soft sea breeze caressed his bare skin. He finally dared to sit up. His mind, not fully awake, tried to go over the events from the night before.

The silence was deafening. There was no trace of her, except for the document folder that was on the bedside table and tiny bottle over it. He took a few moments to recover his sense before proceeding to study his findings.

He ignored the bottle, as he had already deduced that it was the somniferous she had applied to her lips before leaving the hotel and had made both of them feel comatose, except for the fact that she had the antidote on hand, and he had lost his consciousness. Inside the folder, regardless, he found an extensive list with names and pictures of members of the mafia that had caused all the trouble. Between the pages, there was a small note.

_They work for Moriarty, couldn’t risk being discovered. Sorry for the inconvenience. The money is safely kept at UBS. You already know the code. Also took a million the trouble._

_Don’t miss me too much._

_PS.: you look adorable when you’re asleep._

“You, clever _Woman_ …”

The smile that formed on his lips was genuine.

***

It was obvious to him that The Woman was exceptionally gifted. And yet, he wanted, needed to know. To know when she had learnt to speak that many languages. To know how many years she had spent studying music and perfecting her already perfect voice. To know what had happened to her that made her so skilled with weapons. He needed to know everything that was hidden beneath her cunning and seductive and annoyingly brilliant mind.

And if he had dared to ask her and she were one to answer, she would have told him about the years she lived in New York when she was barely a child, studying music at the Juilliard School, living with a distant relative and counting the days to be able to travel across the world to visit her father, wherever his job had taken him to. He would have discovered that she loved pretending to be just like all the other citizens of whichever city she was visiting. So by the time she was twelve, she had learnt a total of nine languages – from Italian to Arabic, Russian or Chinese –, and she would always have learnt them before travelling to meet her father, just to impress him with her new knowledge. And speaking that many languages had been very useful to her when she grew up, when she had started making her way in the world, on her own, after losing her family, her first love, her identity and her life. She also had learnt how to fight, how to survive in a cruel world where no one understood her, where no one respected her. That, however, she would have kept it to herself.

But now, he had been left in her suite room, and only God knew where she had fled – somewhere warm, he guessed, probably the Caribbean, maybe Polynesia. He could find her whereabouts if he tried, but that would feel like he was cheating in that strange game they were playing. He felt she would find him if she wanted. He knew she should not even think about it, but could not help to hope she would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock using the alias of Hoagland Carmichael is a reference to Vesper Lynd comparing James Bond to the famous actor in Ian Fleming's first novel _Casino Royale_.  
> Irene sings "[ _L'amour est un oiseau rebelle_](https://open.spotify.com/track/2r1FiNXh5mDNEP8K07YRVp?si=C9IliILGSi2dQo-AIzbiXQ)", piece commonly knows also as _Habanera_ , composed by Georges Bizet in the XIX Century.


End file.
